I think I met a Serial Killer

When I lived in Boston, I think I met a serial killer. It was around 1:30 in the afternoon. A few of us were hungry and went across the street to the grocery store. I wanted a coffee and luckily there was a Dunkin Donuts in the supermarket.

Usually the line was long because Dunkin’s staff didn’t give a shit. Today was no exception. I waited patiently in line, but started to feel restless when the smell of rotten flesh came over me. Following the stench was a hot wind that keep hitting the back of my neck and a wheezing noise. He was breathing on my neck, whoever he was. And it smelt like dead skunk.

I turned. Standing at only 5’8”, my line of sight when straight into his chest. I let my gaze go upwards until we met eyes. Visually, he was a cross between John Wayne Gacey and Ed Gein, only larger and publicly sporting his latest kill on a blood-stained undershirt.

There we were, staring into each other’s eyes. I couldn’t get the words out, but I wanted to know more about him: family, history of mental illness, aliases, signature trademark. Instead, I pretended to be on a phone call while snapping photos of the Boston Creme Butcher: a serial killer who eats roadkill and follows it up with a coffee & donut.